


lend me your hand (i'm a little too faint of heart)

by asofthaven



Series: VDay Lockers 2020 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Hogwarts Third Year, Late night rendezvous, M/M, Sharing a Bed, a single mention of a boner but obtusely, mentions of canon but wildly canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23398978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asofthaven/pseuds/asofthaven
Summary: The Slytherin common room goes up in flames. In the interest of fairness, they end up bunked with the Gryffindors."It's magic," Ron said bracingly as they followed a few steps behind them, so as to not make it so obvious that they didn't trust the Slytherins to be alone in their dormitory. "The castle can whip up a few new beds, right?"Except that the number of beds stayed precisely the same. The third-year boys stood in silence for several long seconds. Harry had never before appreciated how tiny their dormitory was until this moment.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: VDay Lockers 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685722
Comments: 10
Kudos: 244
Collections: Valentine's Day Lockers 2020





	lend me your hand (i'm a little too faint of heart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayerwien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/gifts).



> Title taken from [Faint of Heart by The Strike](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrvM1kR3UaM), which i listened to on repeat while writing this.

The facts were these, shared by a tight-lipped Professor McGonagall as she stood imposingly at the front of the Gryffindor common room in the middle of the night: by some great mystery, the Slytherin common room had gone completely up in flames, sending large amounts of smoke into the dormitories and decimating most of the common room. The dungeon, being a dungeon, was structurally sound, but the castle was working its magic to fix the other damage done by the fire. Ergo, every student in Slytherin had to be moved, spread across the other three houses until the damage was repaired.

"I should _hope_ ," Professor McGonagall said sternly, "that you will all behave yourselves, and that you understand the necessity of these measures."

And then the Slytherin third and fourth years had filed silently in through the portrait hole, escorted by a fifth-year prefect who had the grim look of a general at war on her face. Harry stared hard at the group of third-years, finding it unnerving to see them in the cozy red and gold of the common room. The common room, already small given the constraints of the tower, was crowded by their entry.

A chilly sort of silence took over. Professor McGonagall pretended not to notice.

"We aren’t sure yet how long repairs will take. As such, you will be sharing dorms with the others in your year for the foreseeable future," she said. Harry's gut dropped out from beneath him; he tried, and failed, to not look in Malfoy's direction. Thankfully, Malfoy was too busy looking like he'd been recently poisoned to notice his stare.

Professor McGonagall gave a long speech about decorum, and her high expectations for both houses, but Harry mostly didn't hear her over the blood rushing in his ears. It felt like a very bad joke, that the Slytherins who hated him were going to be living with him now.

He was comforted by the fact that they looked just as miserable as Harry felt.

With a final, pointed look at the Gryffindor prefects, Professor McGonagall exited. The chilliness of the room plunged straight into ice, broken only when the Slytherin prefect cleared her throat and said, “We’ll need to be directed to the dorms.”

Her voice was so polite it was somehow insulting. Percy puffed up his chest, and a short moment later, the Slytherins were being led up the spiral staircase while Percy lectured at the head of the line.

"It's magic," Ron said bracingly as they followed a few steps behind them, so as to not make it so obvious that they didn't trust the Slytherins to be alone in their dormitory. "The castle can whip up a few new beds, right?"

Except that the number of beds stayed precisely the same. The third-year boys stood in silence for several long seconds. Harry had never before appreciated how tiny their dormitory was until this moment.

It was Nott who spoke first, his voice incredulous. "They can't seriously expect us all to sleep here. What are we supposed to do? Take two to a bed?"

It ended up being exactly what they decided, after the vehemence with which both groups refused to sleep in the common room.

Neville was the one to breach the next, unfortunate topic with a tentative, "Then how do we decide where everyone sleeps?"

This argument took the better part of the next twenty minutes, until it was unhappily decided that each Gryffindor would be paired with a Slytherin in the name of fairness, but mostly because none of them were willing to give up their beds so the Slytherins could sleep two-to-two.

"Yes, because nothing bonds quite as well as misery," Malfoy said snidely, before asking the final question with a brisk, "Who is paired with whom, then?"

The stony silence that followed indicated that none of the parties involved felt there would be a good way to decide this. Harry personally felt like choosing would be worse than doing it randomly—there wasn't a Slytherin he would _choose_ to share a bed with.

"I say we leave it to chance, eh?" Zabini spoke with a lightness that didn't match the strained line of his mouth.

Hearing no protests, he wrote everyone's name in the air. It reminded Harry, briefly, of when Tom Riddle had done the same in the Chamber of Secrets last year, except that Zabini's letters glowed a faint silver and seemed marginally less likely to reveal the name _Lord Voldemort_ with the next flick of his wand. Instead, the names circled each other dizzyingly, until they came to a neat stop in the air, a Gryffindor name next to a Slytherin name.

There was a collective groan as everyone read the name of their bedmate, but Harry felt he had the most reason to be filled with dread.

"Cheers, Blaise," Malfoy said, his eyes narrowed as he took in the sparkling silver dictating _Harry Potter & Draco Malfoy_.

Harry swallowed uncomfortably. This was going to be a long night.

It also ended up being the quietest night Harry had ever experienced. Ron, Harry, and Neville took their turn in the bathroom first, each looking more gloomy than the last.

"How long d'you reckon I can go without sleep?" Ron— _Ron Weasley & Blaise Zabini_—asked after he'd finished brushing his teeth. He was looking exceptionally pale underneath his freckles.

Harry shook his head. He'd scrubbed his face with water, hoping it would wake him from what _had_ to be a dream. He'd been left with sopping bangs for his troubles. "Let me know when you find out."

"It might not be that bad," Neville— _Neville Longbottom & Theodore Nott_—said unconvincingly. "They wouldn't hex us with everyone present, right?"

"They could," Ron said darkly. Harry agreed; he couldn't see how sharing a bed with Malfoy would end in anything other than a trip to the hospital wing. 

He dressed quickly as Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins—none, it seemed, wanted to be left alone with the Gryffindors—took their turn.

"How long did McGonagall say repairs would take?" Seamus— _Seamus Finnigan & Gregory Goyle_—asked with a voice of deepest resentment.

"She didn't," Dean— _Dean Thomas & Vincent Crabbe_—answered. He was holding tightly onto his wand, and Harry felt an immediate pang for him and for Hermione, who was surely suffering the same in the girls dorm. If any of the Slytherins so much as _thought_ of the word _mudblood_ , Harry would hex their mouths shut.

Harry tuned out the rest of the conversation in favor of staring morosely at his bed, finding fault with it the longer he stared at it. It hardly seemed bigger than his cot under the staircase, now that he was _really_ looking at it, and he couldn't remember the last time the sheets had been washed—surely the house elves did it with some regularity?

"Trying to set it afire?" Malfoy's voice was unexpectedly close, and Harry jumped at the sound. He turned to find Malfoy, arms crossed tightly across his chest, barefoot next to him. He looked weird in normal sleepwear, with his hair clearly free of product. He almost looked like a regular person, instead of the bane of Harry's existence. The sour look he wore as he glared at the duvet, however, was refreshingly familiar.

"Erm," Harry said. As there was no good answer to this, his brain decided to shut itself off entirely. This was the only explanation for the next words out of his mouth being, "It's rather small, don't you think?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed at him. "I'll sleep on the floor then, will I?"

Harry would bet his broom that Malfoy had never so much as _lounged_ on a sodding floor. "Don't be a prat," Harry said. To be difficult, he added, " _I'll_ sleep on the floor."

He, at least, had some experience with it.

Malfoy snorted explosively. "Let the saviour sleep on the floor? I think the rest of the school would flay me if they found out."

Harry closed his eyes. When he did, he could hear various whispered arguments being carried out around the room, which didn't help his rising temper. He opened his eyes to find Malfoy glaring at him. "Then I'll just transfigure the bed—" 

"You can't," Malfoy said, twice as irritated as before. "Have you ever even looked at _Hogwarts, A History_? All the beds in the dormitories are warded against transfiguration and other modifying magics."

It was such a Hermione-like statement that Harry felt an entirely inappropriate laugh rise in his chest. He squashed it down, but Malfoy could clearly see _something_ in his expression because his mouth tightened.

"Right," Malfoy said decisively, "I'll take this side."

"This is my bed," Harry pointed out, because that really did mean he should pick sides first.

Malfoy didn't even stop to shoot Harry a scathing look, though his voice very much made up for it. "Oh, pardon me. You see, _my_ bed was recently engulfed by flames, and I'm feeling ever so sensitive about it. Surely you understand my need for some control, in this situation."

Harry, still standing, thought about this. "McGonagall didn't say the fire reached the dorms," he pointed out.

"Potter," Malfoy said. He sounded very tired, suddenly, but the kind of tired that proceeded one making bad, jinx-related decisions rather than falling asleep. "Shut up and get in bed."

All said, it was the least sexy come on Harry had ever heard, which Harry decided to point out to Malfoy as he tucked himself under the covers and tried very, very hard not to brush up against the other boy.

He'd taken his glasses off, but they were close enough that Harry could still make out the general shape of the sneer Malfoy shot at him.

"I will smother you in your sleep," he whispered, as if weighing the merits of the thought aloud.

Harry decided to help him along. "You'd sleep next to a corpse, then. Or were you thinking of smuggling my body out without anyone noticing?" Now that Harry thought about it, could one Vanish a dead body? Couldn't anyone get away with murder that way?

Malfoy made a strangled noise that was less anger and more pained. He turned his back to Harry, effectively ending the conversation. The line of his body was tense.

Harry was left to wonder if he'd done something unspeakable in another life. Why else would he have Voldemort and crazed murderers after him _and_ have to sleep next to Draco Malfoy? Surely that was too much bad for a single person to have to carry?

He half expected that he wouldn't sleep. But eventually the sound of Ron's familiar and newly comforting snoring—so Zabini _hadn't_ killed him—lulled him into closing his eyes. Next thing he knew, Harry woke with his back pressed comfortably against Malfoy's front, an arm slung across his waist. Harry stared at the offending appendage for several long seconds, feeling Malfoy's soft breath across the back of his neck, and decided that actually this might be worse than Voldemort.

Malfoy swiftly implemented a policy entitled Not Worth Speaking About, under which fell such highly inconsequential items such as the arm around the waist; the awkward way with which Harry woke Malfoy up by twisting in his arms and shoving at his shoulder; and the way they had stared at each in a gentle, sleepy sort of confusion before hastily getting as far away as the bed would allow.

Harry felt this was a merciful policy, as he could privately add his own, intensely embarrassing items under this list and then not speak about them, ever, to anyone, and especially not to Malfoy. It was an especially helpful policy to keep in mind when Hermione, looking tired but unharmed, asked in an undertone how their night had gone as they escaped the common room to head to breakfast.

"Well, no one died yet," Ron said, "Mind, I did wake with Zabini's pointy elbow in my bloody ribs."

Harry made an appropriately sympathetic noise and added nothing further to the conversation, because it was Not Worth Speaking About.

Unfortunately, by the time dinner came to a close, it was made readily apparent that the Slytherin dormitory had not miraculously repaired itself days before schedule. It was with Professor McGonagall's stern gaze at their backs that the Gryffindors returned to the common room with the Slytherins at their heels.

The common room was quickly divided in half, the prefects a wary line of peace between the borders of the room until night fell and everyone began heading to bed.

Harry was faced with the horrible reality that, for the second night in a row, Malfoy would be in his bed. Malfoy had always been distracting to Harry; something about the pointy face and pale hair and horrible habit of insulting everyone and everything Harry knew and loved meant that Malfoy was a near-constant presence in Harry's mind.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they stared at Harry’s bed proved a different and unpleasant sort of distracting. He was overly aware of Malfoy’s damp hair, and his bare feet, and the warmth radiating off of his body. He was just so _close_. Harry’s mind couldn’t get past this.

The night was almost as quiet as the first. Perhaps emboldened by the fact that nobody had been hexed—yet—there was a little more grumbling than yesterday. It lent a soothing, cinematic background music to Harry's silent but urgent hope for his bed to triple, at minimum, in size.

Malfoy made a noise that could almost be a snort before climbing into his side—his side! Of _Harry's_ bed!— and pulling the covers up around his ears, nearly.

"Well, get to bed whenever you're up for it, Potter," he said, unconcerned. "Just don't wake me."

Harry mechanically got in next to Malfoy. The room slowly filled with snores and deep breathing, but Harry stayed staring hard at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Maybe he never would again. It seemed safer, what with the Harry-inclined murderers on the loose and Malfoy in his bed.

Malfoy shifted slightly, clearly also wide awake. A pity, that. 

"I think I'm gonna go for a walk," Harry said, a little desperately. He wasn't sure he could stand the anxious way his brain was running around itself.

Malfoy turned his head towards Harry, which was awful because it was made all the more apparent just how close they were. To Harry's mounting horror, he was close enough to see faint freckles across Malfoy's cheeks and nose, even without his glasses. Freckles! Freckles which, until this moment, he had happily associated with the Weasleys and would now forevermore associate with Malfoy as well.

"A walk?" Malfoy repeated in a scathing whisper. "In the middle of the night?"

Harry didn't answer; he was already sitting up and shoving his glasses back onto his face. It was a better idea the longer he thought about it. By the time he got back, Malfoy would be asleep, right? And if Harry never fell asleep, they wouldn't wake up all—all tangled together and confused.

It was a brilliant plan, except for the fact that as soon as Harry shoved his trainers on, Malfoy was up in a flash. Harry had a brief, shining hope that Malfoy was off to the loo or something equally inane, but then he started to pull a robe—a dressing robe, snatched out of the genuine air—over his pyjamas.

"You don't have to come with me!" Harry said in a quick, panicked whisper.

Malfoy scowled at him, balancing precariously on one foot to shove his shoe—a glossy, out of place shoe—on the other foot. "And what will I say if one of the other idiotic Gryffindors notice that you're gone, hm? I assume you're all act first, think never types. _I'm_ not getting hexed for _your_ idiocy." 

Harry was about to point out that surely the others were used to him disappearing at odd hours of the night, but that probably wasn't helpful. And Malfoy was already at the door, mouth an impatient line as Harry dithered by the bedside.

And then, because this whole evening felt a frantic and impossible thing anyways, Harry took out his invisibility cloak.

Malfoy's mouth dropped open. "You have an _invisibility cloak_?"

Figures he'd know what it was upon sight. "Shut up," Harry hissed, "and get under here if you're coming."

Malfoy took exactly three seconds to think about this before getting under the cloak with Harry. Upon reflection, this was a truly terrible idea—Malfoy was taller than Harry, and the cloak only just covered the both of them if they crouched. But most terribly, they had to stay very, very close together to do so. Harry had no idea why he hadn't just donned the cloak and run away instead of offering Malfoy a spot underneath it.

Malfoy seemed to have an equal amount of regret over this, though his seemed to be rooted in the ease with which he allowed Harry to pull him into rule-breaking. As soon as they’d made it out of the common room, he began an anxious strain of whisperings. This was another terrible thing, as his breath was very hot on Harry’s ear.

"...shouldn't even be heading outside. Or did you forget that you have a sodding murderer after you? I should have stayed in that horrendous common room instead." He sounded supremely hacked off. 

It was unfair. Harry was the one who should be hacked off, really. "You can head back, if you'd like," Harry said, with mock-sweetness.

"And let Black kill you without an audience?" Malfoy shot back. They argued in whispers the whole walk, only quieting when the portraits they passed started questioning aloud what the noise was.

Faster than Harry could ever remember, they were at the doors of the Entrance Hall. He pushed it open, a gust of warm, end-of-season wind lifting the edges of the cloak up.

"It's not even locked," Malfoy said, in some outrage. He cast a _tempus_ , and continued, even more offended, "It's nearly one in the morning and they _don't even lock our front door_?"

"Well, there _are_ other protections on the school," Harry said, pulling the cloak off the two of them once they were safely clear of the doors. "Or haven't you read _Hogwarts, A History_?"

Harry, personally, hadn't read it since the summer before he started at Hogwarts, and even then had skipped all the boring bits about the school.

"Ha ha," Malfoy said dryly. He crossed his arms, looking extremely unnerved now that they were outside. "Where exactly are you planning on going, Potter?"

"The Forbidden Forest, of course," Harry said, just to see Malfoy's reaction. He laughed at the look on Malfoy's face, the sound too loud in the night air. It made them both jump, a guilty sort of feeling stealing over Harry. As he had never once felt guilty about breaking school rules, Harry assumed it must be because he was breaking those rules with Malfoy.

"Merlin, you'll wake the whole castle." Malfoy strode past him, heading towards the Great Lake, likely having realized that Harry wasn't serious about the Forbidden Forest bit.

They walked in uneasy silence, Harry trailing after Malfoy like an afterthought. It was a nice night, all gentle winds and bright moon, but Harry's thoughts kept returning to the figure of Malfoy ahead of him, pale hair glinting in the moonlight.

"Why did you really come out here?" Harry asked, once they reached the far side of the lake.

Malfoy stopped, his hands deep in the pocket of his dressing robes. He was frowning as he stared over the sparkling water. "Couldn't sleep," he answered shortly.

Harry stopped next to him, their arms brushing briefly. "Me neither," Harry offered, unnecessarily. 

And then they stood in silence, watching the water ripple with the wind, since anything left between them was Not Worth Speaking About. 

And if they woke the next day, in the same position as the first day, well. That was also Not Worth Speaking About.

  
  


The next night, Harry and Malfoy got into bed without having said a word to each other the entire day. Once the room filled with sleep sounds, they turned to look at each other before getting out of bed simultaneously.

Two nights became three became six, and before he knew it, Harry had snuck out of the castle with Malfoy nearly the entire week. Mostly, they didn't say anything as they wandered the school and its dark grounds, except to whisper a few heated barbs at each other.

Sometimes, though, they did speak, their voices startling in the quiet. Meaningless things, thoughtless things; things about classes and quidditch and skirting around things like _home._ It didn’t mean anything, Harry told himself, even as they walked too close and stared too long at each other.

Once, crouched by the garden behind greenhouse number 3, Malfoy spent nearly fifteen minutes talking about the plants growing there, even though they hadn’t covered them yet in Herbology. He’d flushed when he realized his ramblings, but Harry, enraptured by the sure sound of Malfoy’s voice, had only said, “I used to help out in my aunt's garden," and waited for Malfoy to keep talking.

They even skimmed the edges of the Forbidden Forest, which led to Malfoy walking off in a huff and Harry trying very hard not to laugh at him.

They weren't friends. Right? They barely spoke to each other in the daylight now, and when they did it was different from before, as there were fewer insults and arguments. Mainly, they avoided each other and pretended that they didn't notice anything weird about their nightly excursions.

Their list of things Not Worth Speaking About seemed to grow longer every night, and Harry, unnerved by the sudden numbers of secrets he held, worried at the thought of this.

The morning after their sixth night of sneaking out of the castle, Dumbledore announced that the castle had nearly finished repairing the Slytherin common room, and that the Slytherins should expect to be back in their house tomorrow night.

A cheer went up from all four tables, and Harry tried to smile alongside the rest of the Gryffindors. They’d have their common room and dormitories back, and wasn’t that just a relief?

Harry couldn't help but glance up towards the Slytherin table, though, eyes finding Malfoy immediately. Malfoy, too, seemed to be looking for him. They stared at each other for a moment, before Malfoy turned determinedly away, his mouth almost a frown.

Harry turned back to Ron and Hermione as well, deciding he didn't really need to examine the slight thrum of disappointment running through him.

When Harry sat up that evening, Malfoy was frowning hard at the ceiling. He was clearly thinking about something, and when he noticed Harry staring at him, he only frowned harder.

Harry wasn’t sure if he was meant to comment on this. He let his gaze fall to the sheets, worrying the fabric between his fingers. Malfoy’s frown was probably a bad sign, he decided. And Harry very much wanted to ignore any bad signs, so he said, “Well, come on.”

He pushed the covers away and did not look at Malfoy. He could feel his gaze, though, heavy and considering on his back.

"It's going to be cold again," Malfoy complained after a moment. Harry looked at him; he was still in bed, still frowning hard.

Harry wasn't sure if that was a _no_ , so he said, "If I give you a jumper, will you go?"

Malfoy gave him a long look, his silvery eyes narrowing slightly. He almost seemed suspicious, so Harry shrugged a shoulder and quietly padded towards his wardrobe. He quickly ignored any of the hoodies that used to be Dudley's, which really only left a few options. He picked up a lumpy, folded jumper and hoped fervently that Malfoy wouldn't look at the front of it until after he'd put it on.

He padded back to the bed, holding the jumper out with a stiff hand. It felt less like offering a jumper and more like he was holding out a question whose answer could hurt him deeply.

Malfoy’s eyes fell to the jumper, his mouth smoothing out of his frown and into something softer, surprised. His cheeks were a faint pink. Harry couldn’t stop staring at him.

"Well?" Harry said, his voice coming out with a little wobble. He realized, quite abruptly, that he _really, really_ wanted Malfoy to come with him again. It felt like if Malfoy didn't come, then this—this not-friendship would come to a strangely final end.

Harry didn't want that. He wasn't sure what he wanted, except for Malfoy to take the bloody jumper and sneak out of the castle with him again.

Malfoy's eyes were very bright in the moonlight filtering through the window. He took the jumper, his fingers brushing against Harry's briefly. It felt like a burn, running up Harry's arm and into his face. It was an answer, but Harry was still figuring out the question. He just knew it was important, from the way Malfoy was looking at him.

The moment was ruined rather spectacularly when Malfoy shook out the jumper, saw the large H emblazoned on the front, and promptly smothered a laugh into the crook of his elbow.

"Don't be a prat about it," Harry hissed. His face was hot again, this time with an embarrassed anger.

"Me? A prat?" Malfoy looked like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to laugh or sneer, and the result was a choked sound escaping him. " _I’m_ not the one with a jumper with my name on the front, Potter."

Harry stalked to the door, and heard a very faint snicker at his back. When he turned around, Malfoy was pulling the Weasley jumper over his head. His pale hair was tousled by it, and he looked amused as he got fully out of bed and padded across the room to Harry.

It was unfair, really, that Malfoy looked _nice_ even in a Weasley sweater paired with sleep pants. Malfoy looked nice in his uniform, even, which was another patently unfair thing. Surely no one was meant to look _good_ in a school uniform?

A slow smile was spreading across Malfoy's face, which told Harry—too late—that he'd been staring.

"Something to say, Potter?" Malfoy asked, leaning close.

Harry swallowed, thinking they were veering quite quickly into Not Worth Speaking About territory. "Just wondering if you'd look so smug if you knew that sweater was made by Mrs. Weasley."

Malfoy's expression shifted quickly into a scowl, and Harry stifled a laugh before throwing the cloak over the two of them and heading out.

They didn't speak much as they made their way out of the castle, their hands brushing with increasing frequency. Harry's neck prickled with heat, and he was thankful for the cool breeze that greeted them when they made it outside. His face felt like it was on fire.

"The quidditch pitch," Harry said, suddenly inspired. They hadn’t headed there yet, and somehow, the idea of laying in the middle of that field felt apt.

“Too bad we don’t have our brooms,” Malfoy said thoughtfully, as they walked.

The kept their conversation light and inconsequential like their interactions never were, and Harry was certain they were both ignoring the weight of all those things Not Worth Talking About pressing down on them.

The pitch was black, the empty stands ominous and foreboding. Even still, Harry felt a familiar swoop that he associated with game day in his stomach. He picked a spot in the middle of the pitch and laid on his back, the grass damp through his robes. After a moment, Malfoy laid down next to him, close enough for their hands to touch.

"I'll be in my common room again starting tomorrow," Malfoy said in a rush. Like he was forcing himself to breach a topic that would otherwise be Not Worth Speaking About.

Harry didn't particularly want to talk about it. Talking about it meant he'd have to think about the warmth coursing through him, and how he'd always been attuned, really, to Malfoy's presence. This was somehow no different, even though Harry knew that it _was_ in a very fundamental way.

Harry knew he was going to miss this. He was going to miss it terribly, which was why he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “It’s—it’s good, that you’ll be back in your own room.”

“Right,” Malfoy said, after a long moment. Their hands were quite close now, the tips of their fingers hooked slightly around each other. “I suppose this is it, then?”

Harry swallowed the crushing disappointment back. He didn’t want it to be. He’d do nearly anything, to make it not be the last time.

And before he could open his mouth, the sky exploded into color. A gasp got stuck in Harry’s throat as indistinct splashes of color popped into the air, casting them in sudden light. When Harry sat up, he realized that he could see the wisps of color around the castle, too, high in the sky near the towers.

But it was brightest around him and Malfoy, turning the quidditch pitch gold as the wisps coalesced into orb-like shapes, floating around them. There were other colors, too, lavender and green and blue and silver, but the gold was the brightest, a near blinding yellow at its center.

“What—?” Harry started, breath still caught in his throat.

Malfoy sat up, too, his eyes wide and mouth parted open in surprise. “Old magic,” he said, wonder in his voice.

“Old magic?” Harry repeated, lifting a hand towards the nearest bulb of color, the gold with a bright yellow core. It was wispy and faint, but pulsed like something living; he couldn’t touch it, but he could _feel_ it when his hand passed through it. It felt like laughter; at the same time, it felt like crying. It felt like being crowded around the kitchen table at the Burrow; it felt like being locked inside the cupboard. It felt like hunger pangs on his birthday, but it also, inexplicably, felt like the weight of Malfoy’s arm around his waist.

It gnawed at Harry’s chest, a memory of something he’d never had but could almost reach. His inhale was shaky when he pulled his hand away and reached, instinctively, for Malfoy.

Malfoy’s hand was cool when Harry found it. His fingers curled tight against Harry’s.

Harry swallowed through the sudden urge to cry. Next to him, Malfoy had just snatched his other hand back from an orb of the same pulsing gold.

Almost like he could feel Harry looking, Malfoy turned his head. His eyes were very, very bright.

Harry, needing to offset the feeling that was threatening to unbalance him, said, “Old magic that only shows up when two blokes lay in the middle of the quidditch pitch at night?”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched. “You’re unbelievable. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

Without meaning to, Harry smiled. And Malfoy smiled back, and suddenly that gnawing feeling in his chest felt a lot less likely to drown him.

"Fine," Harry said, biting on the bait Malfoy so clearly wanted him to take. "What's this old magic do?"

"It doesn't _do_ anything," Malfoy answered. He lifted one pale hand and traced the wisping colors swirling through the night sky. "It _shows_. Those are wishes."

Harry gave Malfoy a suspicious side-long look, but Malfoy was still staring upwards. Soft greens and yellows painted his profile as the wispy orbs floated overtop them, caught by the gentle breeze.

Harry forced his gaze back to the colors, already beginning to fade. “Whose wishes?” he asked, though he had a feeling he knew the answer.

And when Malfoy answered, “I wonder,” it sounded like he knew the answer, too.

They sat in comfortable silence after that, watching the colors fade from the sky and plunge them back into darkness. And then they sat a while longer, their hands held tightly between them, until Harry yawned so widely he felt his jaw crack. Malfoy laughed, a small huff of breath, and hauled Harry up to his feet.

Malfoy led him through the corridors by the hand, and Harry felt a ridiculous sort of laugh rise up in him: Draco Malfoy, holding his hand and leading him to the Gryffindor common room.

“How does it work? The magic?” Harry finally thought to ask, when they were nearly at the portrait hole. Their steps had slowed slightly, just enough to show some reluctance to arrive at their destination.

Malfoy stopped short of the portrait hole, not looking at Harry. “I don’t know.”

He said it in a way that suggested he did know, but before Harry could interrogate him about it, Malfoy said the password and stepped into the common room. Harry, miffed, followed after him.

Despite Harry’s persistence, Malfoy didn’t budge from his answer, finally snapping a, “Shut up, will you?” as they settled down, face to face.

Harry’s heart was thudding in his throat. “Make me,” he said, and watched as Malfoy’s eyes darted down to Harry’s lips.

It was inevitable, really, that Malfoy would lean forward and press their lips together. Inevitable that Harry would kiss him back, his spine tingling with the feeling.

“You’re staring,” Malfoy said in a very quiet whisper, when they finally pulled away. His cheeks were pink.

Harry wanted to say something back, to wipe the self-satisfied look off Malfoy's face, but he turned his head slightly and yawned into the pillow instead. He _had_ been staring. He wanted to _keep_ staring.

So he said nothing, and kept Malfoy’s hand firmly in his.

In the small space between their heads, Malfoy laughed. Harry found he rather liked the sound. "Good night, Potter."

Harry opened his eyes sleepily, just in time to see Malfoy's eyes close. "Night," he answered. He waited until Malfoy's breathing evened out before adding, in a whisper, "Draco."

Just like that, the Slytherin dormitories were reopened. Harry wasn’t sure what to do about the whole Malfoy situation; they hadn't seen each other except for class, and Harry was certain he didn't want to figure out their situation with all their classmates watching.

He was still thinking about it two days later, when he, Ron, and Hermione walked into the library. Harry spotted Malfoy’s blonde head between the bookshelves, and tried very hard not to stare as he unceremoniously picked a nearby table. He did a piss-poor job, because Malfoy looked up only a moment later. He met Harry’s gaze like a challenge.

Harry bit down on a smile, and turned his head as Ron and Hermione put their stuff down opposite him.

A paper crane floated over to him a few minutes later. Harry snatched it out of the air before Ron or Hermione could notice, unfolding it to find the words, in tiny, slanting scrawl, **can we meet tonight?**

There were no initials on the bottom of the note, but Harry didn't need them. He didn’t look up, instead folding the note into a tiny square and clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Hermione,” he started, because if anyone were to know, Harry was certain it would be her, “Do you know of any spell that makes wishes, erm, visible?”

Hermione gave him a funny look. “What do you mean?”

Leaving out most of the incriminating details, Harry explained about the lights from the other night, surrounding the castle. He didn’t explain how he knew they were wishes, or what he felt when he touched them.

Blessedly, Hermione didn’t seem to need additional information. She sat up straight, looking incredibly excited.

"Oh, Harry," she said. "That's amazing! It takes an incredible amount of magic for those to appear."

Harry rolled the tip of his quill between his fingers, feeling his ears flame. "Erm, what d'you mean?"

Hermione frowned in thought, clearly trying to remember some passage in a book. "That magic only shows itself when two or more people share the same intense wish. It has to be _exactly_ the same, too,” she explained, “which is why it’s such a rare magic! _Plus_ the parties have to be in close proximity, to trigger it. For you to have seen it affect such a large space..." Hermione trailed off, sounding intrigued the way she always did when presented with a curiosity. "Either a _lot_ of people were sharing the same wish, or two very powerful people had one very strong wish."

"Huh," Harry said, thinking hard. He thought about the past week, and the feeling of Malfoy's hand in his the whole way back to the dorms, and all the other things Not Worth Speaking About.

Mostly, he thought about kissing Malfoy. He thought about it quite a lot.

Harry unfolded the parchment as soon as Hermione turned back to her work, writing out **midnight** before he could think twice. He didn’t know the charm Malfoy used to have it fly over to him, but that was easily solved by tossing it at Malfoy’s head as he passed by.

Maybe there was something worth speaking about, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> i worked on this RIGHT up until the deadline, basically, so please excuse any mistakes! i got so excited when i saw your wishlist that i got a bit carried away, but I hope this is at least a little bit of what you like :>
> 
> comments and kudos always appreciated!


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